


our love was like a song (you kept forgetting) [femmeslash]

by lemonsherry



Category: RPF - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsherry/pseuds/lemonsherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>katy perry is engaged to russell brand, and rihanna hasn't spoken to her in six months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our love was like a song (you kept forgetting) [femmeslash]

**Author's Note:**

> i dont even know. i'm in love with rihanna and kinda ambivalent about katy, but they're like bffs in real life. rihanna just threw katy a bachelorette party, and my response was to write this fic. or, i saw [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30GntKKBcD0) video and my response was to write this fic. or im a weirdo. also, stacy isn't really the name of rihanna's stylist. however, mellissa is the name of her true blue bfffff.

There's a rare spring shower in Los Angeles the day Rihanna decides to text Katy again. It's been months since they've had anything close to the relationship they used to--where they'd hold hands and dance together to Kings of Leon in a club, go shopping for ridiculous brightly coloured outfits together, drop by Minx to get their nails done to match, or even share a perfunctory hug for the cameras on a red carpet. It's been six months.

The rain comes unexpectedly, Rihanna is walking with Stacy, and they're supposed to be stopping by Kitson to pick up some basics for her to wear in between TV appearances and tour performances. Maybe around two dozen tees, some comfortable denim, half as many high-waisted skirts and patterned cotton dresses, those gladiator sandals they bookmarked in last month's Nylon--clothes she can wear when she's walking to the grocery store to pick up bottled water and might inadvertently manage to be featured in a "Stars Without Their Makeup" photoshoot that'll show up on the cover of US Weekly. She's been distracted from the goal since her stylist picked her up this morning though; last night she went out to dinner with Mellissa and they got drunk on vodka mixes and melancholy talk about their high school boyfriends. She's still a little bit tipsy and a lot sleepy, but she's never been able to get over her shock and appreciation at being known as Rihanna: World-Renowned Pop star, and not just Robyn: the One Hit Wonder from the Caribbean, and she rises to the occasion for everything that's helped her become this person.

So now she's in the passenger seat of a blacked out SUV, driving down the sun-baked streets of L.A., black Ray Bans over her light-shy eyes, and phone in hand when the rain comes down. It sluices through the sunlight that has left it's impression on trees whose shadows still line the sidewalks, and it kind of reminds her of home. Or maybe the leftover numbness in her teeth—a side-effect of the vodka—reminds her of last night, reminds her of high school, reminds her of home. Either way she feels nostalgic for the heat in Barbados that's never felt as artificial as it does in L.A. and Arizona and Vegas, all these weird constellation of letters that still add up to equal "foreign" in her mind. She remembers the sudden rain that would soak the streets while she and her friends sat in class waiting to be dismissed and allowed to walk home, when they would brush hands with boys in higher grades, then take off their shoes and walk barefoot through the dirt-heavy puddles, and dry off their feet with their socks just before they arrived home to avoid detection by their parents.

She thumbs out a text message and actively doesn't think about it while she does, so much so that the "SUCCESSFULLY SENT" notification surprises and confuses her until she retraces her mind's steps, and reassures herself that she meant to do it, that she meant to say _heeey future mrs. brand. I miss u._

They decide to detour at The Coffee Bean, grateful for the opportunity the rain has provided—little to no paparazzi littering the parking lot when they step out. She'd dragged on a close-fitting Wang V-neck and ratty grey L.A.M.B sweatpants to come out, and she's hoping the chunky necklace and glossy black Adidas high tops she added last minute will look more like 'rocking-a-new-trend' and less like 'really-doesn't-give-a-fuck-but-is-pretending-to-for-appearances- sake', if she still manages to be caught by any cameras. She's really hung over.

She's sipping a brain-freezing Mucho Mango blended drink (she sort of hates caffeine) while walking out of The Coffee Bean arm in arm with Stacy, and she's feeling significantly more awake and excited about buying new clothes when she notices two things: 1. The sun shower has stopped, and there's a half-assed but still visible rainbow hanging over a cloud, 2. A text came in from one 'kitty purry' at 11:15am, approximately half an hour ago.  
She spends a couple of seconds staring at the notification, wondering if Katy is thinking she's delayed replying to her out of some latent attempt to indicate just how angrily confused she still is over the-- now six months long--engagement to an English random who Rihanna has only exchanged words with once. (Through introductions at a Grammy night dinner table where she and Katy got drunk and spoke almost exclusively to each other for most of the show. After which they hi-jacked a limo waiting outside the building, acted as if they were the celebrity clients the sleepy driver was supposed to be expecting, mutually made the unspoken agreement to get a stupidly expensive hotel suite, and spent the rest of the night kissing down each other's bodies with the lights turned on while a repeat of E!'s red carpet special played on a flat screen in the background. )

She has to read the _'already officially mrs. brand , thank god 4 vegas!!!'_ three times before she figures out it's a joke, and then reminds herself to be grateful that there's still room for jokes between them—especially about this. She's trying to formulate a similarly light-hearted reply when a next text beeps in, _'we should meet up. I hate that ur mad at me'_. And she doesn't even try to think up a response to that one. She just doesn't.  
\---

  
Six hours later she's in front of her bathroom mirror with a huge white towel knotted around her damp skin and a hand knotted in her red hair. They're going out for dinner. Rihanna can honestly say that the last thing she expected when leaving the house this morning is that she herself would take up the phone, call maybe the only real _friend_ she has ever made in this fucked up industry (outside of Jay and Kanye, who are more like her brothers) and invite her out to talk about everything and nothing over Italian and white wine, like they used to. She's maybe a little bit nervous. This is compounded by the fact that she has absolutely no idea what to do with her hair, and she sort-of-kind-of wants to look her best when she sees Katy.

She wants to make her remember why they both fell towards each other in the first place, why they kissed after the first real time they'd spent together, halfway across the world in London. The two of them had dressed up in leather jackets, combat boots, and black shades that they bought earlier in the day in Camden Town, and went to a real authentic English pub. They took pictures with their camera phones of each other shovelling down fish-and-chips, and flirted with the 80 year old man sitting beside them who had about a million piercings, and when they went to the bathroom together to touch up their makeup they ended up licking the salt from each other's lips instead.

It was the first time they kissed, and the first time Rihanna had ever kissed a girl. She still remembers how shocking the heat that ran through her body had felt when Katy's tongue had touched hers, when the heaviness of her breasts had brushed Rihanna's chest, when they'd walked out of the bathroom and the pub with their fingers clasped together, took a black cab home and made out some more in the back. She remembers how she didn't care about anything then, _anything_ but how soft Katy felt everywhere, from her lips to her inner arm, and how sweet she was, the scent of her hair and her shower gel.

She's tempted to call her hairdresser and make-up girl and get it over with, but they're her friends, and she can't be bothered to orchestrate a lie to explain away why she's getting done up. Like it's a date night or something.  
\--

  
The first thing she notices when they see each other again is that Katy still uses the same shampoo. It's this weird coconut-guava mashup that Rihanna used to find so endearing, because somehow the way it smelled artificially tropical always reminded her of why she'd fell in love with America at sixteen years old. She considers this when she's engulfed in a tentative hug by Katy, who was waiting for her outside of Giogio Baldi, the restaurant in Santa Monica Rihanna chose for this last-minute reconciliation.

They walk inside, and Rihanna already feels better, more prepared for this. She's always known how to compensate for her uncertainty in unpredictable situations by being stoic. But if Katy hugged her, if she's worried that Rihanna's still mad at her (which thankfully means she doesn't know how it's kinda not mad, as much as it is _hurt_ by her), then she's good. She's okay. She can do this.

They sit and order, and when the straight-laced waiter places warm bread and sautéed mussels in front of them, Katy kicks her under the table. After he's gone Rihanna belatedly says "Ow," and Katy says "tell me you noticed the hickey behind his ear, what the fuck," and they both snort into their glasses of Sauvignon blanc, and the rest of the night continues like one they might have had before six months ago. Katy's feet rest beside Rihanna's the entire night under the table, and it seems like every time she refers to her as 'Ri'( like she used to, back then) their ankles brush. Or maybe Rihanna is imagining it, or over thinking it, or a combination of the two.

When they pay the bill and are handed their boxed leftovers-- penne, risotto, panna cotta—they walk out together; they're talking about tattoos and the new ones they both have. Rihanna has words on her chest and her neck, positions as brazen as the person she wants to become, Katy has one on her upper arm that's an exact replica of one of Russell's. Rihanna laughs freely, the tattoo reads "go with the flow" in Sanskrit, so she follows its advice. That's what friends do.

Katy drove, so Rihanna jumps in beside her instead of calling Mellissa to pick her up. She feels light and normal, and she's thinking maybe she won't feel as lonely when she goes to sleep tonight. The glass of wine she had makes her feel mellow and not harsh with sadness like the glassfuls of vodka had. Or maybe it's just Katy. Katy who is wearing a Herve Leger dress that looks ridiculously sinful, Katy whose laugh is _undeniably_ sinful, who always knows just what to say to make Rihanna giggle uncontrollably and unattractively, but not give a fuck. Katy whose skin looks like something forbidden.

Rihanna only notices they're at Katy's house when they pull up in her garage, and she doesn't know what to feel when Katy says without prompting, "Russell's in London for two months, filming for a movie or something."  
Rhianna doesn't answer, but she does take Katy's hand when its offered, and she does rest a head on her shoulder while she goes through the process of closing the garage door and disabling the house alarm so they can go in. Her hair smells really nice.

The kitchen's dark, but for the yellow light from the open refrigerator door they're standing in front of. They each have a tall glass of cool water, and half-way through drinking they make it into a chugging competition. Rihanna wins, and Katy smiles so widely and so prettily that Rihanna thinks she let her. But when Katy touches cold lips to her's in a sort of question, Rihanna returns the favour, so.  
\---

  
They stumble onto a daybed in the living room that smells so much like Katy that Rihanna almost cries, or thinks she could. Either way she doesn't have a lot of time to consider it, because Katy's sitting on her thighs, and she's spanning up Rihanna's stomach, her nails a bright pink that look out of place in the moonlight straining through the curtains. When her fingers hit below Rihanna's breasts she makes a sound and feels like she's coming already, but Katy bends and kisses her neck, her chest, like she knows. Like she knows exactly what she needs. She tongues the words marked on her neck, and she explores Rihanna's lips like they're an unspoiled vacation destination that she's missed dearly. She sucks on her tongue and puts a hand under Rihanna's dress, skipping past the panties at her hips and stopping at her flat belly, touching it and softly pressing her fingers into the skin, tripping up the warm flesh of her ribs, and something inside of Rihanna's chest feels so intense that she laughs in response, just to calm it down. She mutters "what are you doing to me", but in thick Bajan, it feels like the only protection she has left.

Rihanna reaches up to push Katy's straps off her shoulders, and when her softsoftsoft breasts fall in her hands she feels like she doesn't give a fuck about anything else in the world, right at that moment. But when Katy makes a soft sigh and buries her head into Rihanna's shoulder, pressing their bodies together like she can't believe this either, Rihanna can't help but think about after, when she's in her own bed tomorrow night, and when this experience will have fucked up her head and heart completely, and when she'll see Katy and Russell on the cover of OK! Magazine, dressed up with an 'Exclusive Wedding Pictures!' headline.

"Kat," she says, "Kat."

Katy looks up, and when their eyes meet for what seems like a minute, Rihanna realizes how terrified she should be. Of this girl, of how she makes her feel, of the kiss she lands somewhere on the side of Rihanna's nose before she talks.

"We're not actually getting married."

There's a pause. The 'jesus' written in loping script on Katy's wrist glances by Rihanna's periphery as Katy strokes through her red hair, the colour so new that its visible even at the soft edges of her scalp. "Mom and Dad want a serious relationship, PR wants engagement publicity, and he wants someone to talk to when he's lonely."

Rihanna snorts, her heart may be struck dumb but she's not an idiot. "As if you're not fucking him."

Katy looks down and back up again, not meeting Rihanna's eyes and laughing around the words in her mouth.

"I get lonely too."

Rihanna's the one who gets up to climb the stairs and bring down sheets that smell of detergent and coconuts from Katy's room. When she comes back down she realizes that Katy is naked and face down on the day bed, her hair caught in the tassels of a hideous cushion. Rihanna wants to take off her own dress, so she can breathe easier and maybe fall asleep, but mostly so she can lay beside Katy and feel like the liquid heat settling in the center of her body is the result of some kind of osmosis. She wants to ask Katy to unzip her, but feels like it would sound stupid and artless and cliché and like everything she doesn't know.

"Come lay down," Katy says, and her voice sounds strange muffled by upholstery and reverberating in the silence of a big L.A. house, empty but for two girls and buzzing appliances.  
//end  



End file.
